My Dragon
by Shekiah Rosay
Summary: Ten-year-old Seto Kaiba is abused, beaten, and broken. His only source of hope is a little drawing of a Blue-Eyes White Dragon given to him by his brother. What happens when the card comes to life as a woman named Kisara who sits beside him and dries his tears?


a/n:

Hey fam! I'm still alive! xP It's been a very long time (nearly four years) since I posted anything on here, but I've been busy doing things in the real world like traveling overseas and getting married and all kinds of cool shit. I finally got back into reading a bit of fanfiction, and inevitably, when I read it, I start writing it. I have always been a diehard silentshipper – and that hasn't really changed – but I read an amazing SetoxKisara story and decided I wanted to start exploring their relationship a little more. (It's a pretty easy transition, because I harbor this secret, apparently unpopular belief that Serenity might be the reincarnation of Kisara, or at least the modern "counterpart" to her, the same way Yugi is to Yami).

Eeeenyway… in the anime/manga, we've really only seen the connection between Seto and Kisara when they were both the same age (either in Egypt or modern day) but I realized that their souls have always had that connection, and I wanted so much for a young adult Kisara to comfort poor, hurting little Seto in an almost maternal way. I love the idea of soulmates being soulmates across years, regardless of age, because the linear idea of time is just an illusion, etc etc. So that is the long story about the birth of this fic. It might be a one-shot, or I might do a second installment if response is good and get some good ideas. I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh. (Do we really still have to do disclaimers? idk at this point it's kind of just a tradition, lol). Thanks friends – please r/r! :)

* * *

It was well past midnight.

Seto lay in bed, his covers pulled up not only over his head but over the top of his pillow as well - such that not even the smallest fringe of his short brown hair would poke out the top. He had locked the door, which he was never supposed to do, but that night he needed the peace of knowing that neither his stepfather nor any of the man's cronies could get into the room. In the warm, dark sanctuary, he found that he could breathe peacefully for the first time since he had gotten out of the same bed in the darkness of the morning.

Seto's left ear was still ringing where his stepfather's final blow had landed, and it hurt badly enough that he felt tears stinging at the back of his eyes. Their presence made him angry, because they were really just a reflex to the pain - not an admission of anger or sadness or fear. Just as he did every night, Seto told himself that he didn't feel any of those emotions - but just as he realized every night, that wasn't entirely true.

Letting out a quiet whine (which he muffled into a pillow to be sure no passing servants would hear) Seto rolled over and massaged his ear with his hand. The only noises he could hear in the dark, silent house were the ones he made himself, but even those sounded a little bit muffled. He hoped that his hearing would come back after the swelling went down.

 _Where was Mokuba?_

 _Was he sleeping well, at least?_

If that were true, Seto decided, then the misery he was feeling would almost be worth it.

He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been since they left the orphanage with Gozaburo Kaiba, but it felt like centuries. Each day got progressively worse, such that Seto began to wonder how much longer he would be able to manage the expectations - and the abuse - he was experiencing. He had already long since vowed that if it ever got to the point that he knew he wouldn't survive his lessons, he would have to do something drastic, like leap from his balcony, so that he wouldn't leave Gozaburo any shell of a body to use as a vessel for a brain saved away on a server somewhere.

That vow was a heavy burden for a ten-year-old to bear.

 _But when,_ Seto found himself asking, _would he know that the time had come?_

As much as his head hurt and his eyes watered and he heard his own voice screaming in exhausted agony in the back of his mind, it didn't seem like it would be too far away. Whatever came next - whatever was a step up from this - might be enough to end him.

 _But what would happen to Mokuba if he wasn't there anymore?_

Seto had asked himself that question before, and he had comforted himself with notion that Gozaburo would probably just send Mokuba back to the orphanage, citing something absurd like behavioral problems. Seto was the only one Gozaburo had wanted to begin with. The fact that the idea of Mokuba being alone in that awful place was a source of comfort revealed how desperate their current situation had become.

 _But what if – what if Gozaburo decided Mokuba's body or mind were good enough to use as a stand-in?_

Seto barely got to see Mokuba anymore, but when he did, it was clear to him that his brother was growing up. Every time he saw him, it seemed as though the younger boy had taken on more of Seto's own traits: sharper features, a taller frame, and long, lean limbs. If this continued, maybe their stepfather would decide that Mokuba would be an acceptable vessel. Maybe with Seto gone, it would be Mokuba enduring these tribulations.

That was unimaginable. He wouldn't allow it. He would just have to will himself to survive, whatever happened, so that his sweet, gentle brother wouldn't be the one to suffer.

Trying to stop his heart from pounding, Seto sat up and allowed the covers to fall down in his lap. He took a deep breath of the cool night air.

He needed to see it.

 _The drawing._

Seto didn't let himself pull out the picture his brother had given him too often, for the same reason that archaeologists don't handle thin sheets of papyrus excessively. Unlike metal or stone, paper isn't made to be eternal; the more one handles it and smudges it and weeps over it, the likelier it is to just fall apart. And more than anything, Seto needed the drawing to last forever, because he needed to know that something could.

Finally, he decided that it was worth the wear and the risk that particular night. He needed to see his dragon.

Seto pushed his covers to the end of the bed and stepped carefully onto the carpet, planting each foot deliberately so as not to make a sound. Looking over his shoulder quickly – which was unnecessary, seeing as the door was locked, but did seem to ease his nerves – he lifted up his mattress a few inches and pulled out a book. As he opened it up, a flimsy piece of folded paper floated down to the floor. Carefully and reverently, almost as though he were reaching for a butterfly wing or an eggshell, Seto picked it up.

In the cool, bluish moonlight coming through the window, Seto could just barely make out the heavy strokes of his brother's ink. The drawing was a little sloppy and may have been difficult for someone else to interpret, but to him, it was a masterpiece: The Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Seto had always been drawn to that particular monster, and holding the card – even his brother's childlike interpretation of it – made him feel like a piece of his soul that was missing came back and filled his emptiness with warmth. Aside from being a gesture of resistance and love, the gift of the card had also been a promise: _it won't be like this forever. One day, this card and the freedom and life the dragon represents will be more than just an impossible dream._

Mokuba had told Seto once, in one of their rare moments unsupervised together, that he had had a vision the night he drew the picture. In the dream (Mokuba had insisted that it wasn't a dream, but Seto knew it had to have been) the dragon had come to life, and he and Mokuba had ridden on its back together. It had taken them out of the dark, oppressive house into the cool night air, and Seto had smiled and laughed.

Funny how that last part seemed like the least believable aspect of the entire fantasy.

Feeling the thin paper between his fingers, Seto found himself idly wishing that the card had the same sort of magic for him as it apparently did for his brother. He could have used an escape, even if it had to be dreamt. Sighing and preparing himself to say goodbye to his precious dragon so he could put it away and will himself to sleep, he saw it.

The light.

At first Seto just blinked quickly - certain that whatever had seemed to appear in the dark corner of his room was just a trick of his eyes or a hallucination brought about by exhaustion. He wondered momentarily if Gozaburo had hit him harder than he thought. However, even as Seto blinked more intently, the glowing figure didn't go away. If anything, she became clearer and better defined. What had started as just a glowing mass had begun to take shape into a human figure. He could make out long slender limbs, wide eyes, and flowing hair.

There was a translucent, glowing _woman_ in the corner of his room, and she was walking toward him.

Seto could feel his heart speed up, but he also took note of the fact that he wasn't at all afraid. It occurred to him that he was a ten-year-old child watching a ghost take shape in his room and feeling nothing but startled curiosity, and he wondered if he was losing his ability to feel fear. That in itself was a little bit alarming.

Always one for logical explanations and getting to the bottom of unsolvable problems, Seto sought more possible explanations. He wondered next if he may have died after all. He had always imagined that if that happened, the first person he would encounter would be his sweet mother, whom he still missed every day. But even from across the room, Seto could tell that this woman didn't look at all like his mother.

Finally, the ghostly woman came close enough that Seto could make out her features more clearly. She was a good bit younger than his mother had been even at the time of her death – this woman was only in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair was long and silvery-white, drifting down to the waist of the simple, knee-length dress she wore. Her cheekbones were high and her features were delicate, giving her a look of constant surprise. However, there was one feature that stood out above all the others: her brilliant blue eyes held one of the kindest expressions Seto had ever seen. Just looking into them made him feel a tightness in his chest, and he quickly attempted to suppress it.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The woman only smiled and motioned for Seto to sit beside her on the edge of his bed. Not knowing why, he obliged without question.

It appeared to Seto that the woman was still getting more clearly defined as the moments passed. Though she still had a glow about her, she had become nearly as solid as he was. He reasoned that as she got more and more "real," she might get to a point where she would be able to respond to his questions.

"Can you tell me who you are?" he asked again.

The woman opened her mouth slowly, as though she herself was uncertain whether anything would come out.

"You… you don't remember me?" she finally asked.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Seto shook his head.

"You look so familiar, but I don't think you and I have ever met face-to-face before," he confessed.

"Face-to-face… perhaps not."

A silence passed between them, but Seto knew that nothing about it was uncomfortable. Just sitting, saying nothing in this woman's presence was the most natural thing he could have imagined. As they sat, he tried to place the feeling of peace he experienced in her presence. The realness of her as she gazed at him made him wonder if his brother's dream hadn't been a dream after all. A sense of knowing calm seemed to radiate from her eyes into his soul.

Suddenly, the pieces started falling into place.

"Are you… are you my dragon?" Seto demanded, holding up Mokuba's drawing.

The woman rewarded him with a wide smile.

"And did you visit my brother, the night he drew this?"

"I did," the woman replied. "He is a kind boy."

Seto breathed deeply, and he almost thought he could smell a hint of lotus in the air.

"What should I call you?" he asked.

"When we knew one another before… you called me Kisara," the woman replied.

"Kisara."

Even the syllables themselves seemed comforting to Seto as they passed over his lips.

"Can you tell me anything about the time when we knew one another before?" he asked.

"It would be better for you to remember on your own," Kisara replied. "But it doesn't have to be this moment. I know you are tired."

Seto nodded. He was exhausted.

"Will you… lie down with me?" he asked hesitantly.

Something about the request sounded strange even to Seto, but he decided not to think too much of it. Though the woman was quite pretty – and he felt a sense of familiarity with her – he didn't want anything from her but her presence beside him so that he wasn't so alone.

She seemed to understand.

Seto lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. For a half-second, he was afraid that Kisara would be gone when he opened them again – but true to her word, she stayed. When he looked up, he could see that she had lain down on the bed by his side, one hand placed comfortingly over his arm. He couldn't feel the weight of her hand, exactly, but he felt a bit of warmth and the energy that came from having another person beside him so close.

He took a deep breath, almost like a sigh.

"My head hurts," he said softly. "My stepfather hit me."

"I know," Kisara replied. "And I'm so sorry."

Seto felt a tear roll down his cheek, and almost before he could realize or react, another followed. And another, and another, and another. Soon enough, he was lying in bed sobbing openly, observed only by the sad eyes of Kisara, the ghost of a dragon woman he may or may not have known in another life. He couldn't recall having cried like that – or at all – since back before his parents died, when he had been a child and had a brother rather than been an accidental adult with his own child depending on him.

"I hate all of this so much," he whispered, his voice breaking from the tears. "I don't know how much longer I can do it."

"You will survive," Kisara promised. "Keep me with you."

"You mean… my card?" Seto asked, sniffling.

"Yes."

"But won't it smudge or tear?"

"It will not," Kisara promised. "It's not an ordinary piece of paper with an ordinary child's scribbles. Keep me with you, and I will do what I can to give you strength. You will feel it."

Seto took a shuddering breath.

"But _father_ told me I have to kill my feelings, in order to survive. "What if I have to quit feeling any pain or hurt so that I can have enough power, like he told me?"

"Then you will," Kisara replied solemnly. "But believe me when I tell you, Seto Kaiba: it won't be forever. You will be able to come back. I will help you. Though you don't remember yet, you have saved me many times. Whatever form you take now, I will always come back for you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Feeling the first true comfort he had felt in months – maybe even years – Seto found himself starting to fall asleep. Kisara remained beside him until he drifted off into a sleep that was free of nightmares for the first time in recent memory. Around midnight, by which time he was sleeping soundly, she gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead, tucked the picture he still held into the pocket of his nightshirt, and stood up.

"Until we see one another again, Seto Kaiba," Kisara whispered, fading away into the same corner from which she had appeared. "I will always come back for you."


End file.
